


Stiletto

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dom!Feuilly, Dom/sub, High Heels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Bahorel just needs to lose control.  And sometimes, Feuilly just needs to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for villainyandgoodcheekbones on Tumblr; all of the actual sex is in the next part; this chapter had to get them there.

Feuilly is lean and scrappy and a little on the short side, so when Bahorel opens the door to their apartment to find himself at eye-level with him, it’s a little — read: _really fucking_  — weird.

Turns out Feuilly is wearing a pair of platform stiletto boots.

 

They’re black, shiny vinyl, or leather, or something, and Bahorel swallows.   _Shit_ , he thinks, but he just looks Feuilly over and says easily, “When did you get a time machine?”

“Shut up,” Feuilly says, glowering, “and get in here.”

Bahorel knows that tone of voice.  It’s not exactly  _insistent_ , but it brooks no argument.  Bahorel, of course, argues anyway.  “Why?  You look like you’re about to go out anyway.”

Feuilly just  _looks_  at him, and Jesus, he must be taking cues from Enjolras, because that, that is a Look that Shows the Abyss.

And Bahorel goes inside.  Because he’s a shit, he invades Feuilly’s personal space.  “Now, I’m not one to look a gift horse too hard in the mouth, but to what do I owe this particular sight and attitude?”

“You’ve been a shit all week, and I know you well enough to know what that means.”  Feuilly isn’t fazed.  He reaches behind Bahorel to take hold of his ponytail and pulls it, tilting Bahorel’s head back.  “You  _can_  ask, you know.”

Bahorel makes a rumbling noise, almost a purr, in the back of his throat.  “Where’s the fun in that?”

Feuilly smirks, and lets go.  “Fine.”

He turns and walks to the kitchen, those fucking heels adding a sway to his walk.  He starts rooting through the fridge, bending at the waist, because he is actually an asshole.

He comes up with a beer and pops it open, settling with his ass against the kitchen counter and just looks at Bahorel dubiously.

 _Fuck_ , Bahorel thinks, because he knows  _exactly_  what Feuilly’s playing at here.

He’s gonna make him  _ask for it_.

Bahorel crosses his arms and cocks his head.  “Change your mind?”

“You asked what the fun in asking was.”  Feuilly takes a drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  “Figure it out.”

“ _You_ ‘re a shit,” Bahorel grumbles, and goes back to sit down on the couch.  He flicks on the TV — some nature documentary, and Bahorel doesn’t care at all, but he needs the distraction.

Because he wants it —  _damn,_ does he want it — but he’s not desperate enough for it to ask.

But he keeps sneaking glances at Feuilly in those fucking  _boots_  and imagining him in nothing but, with a stiletto digging into Bahorel’s back and  _draa-aa-aaging_ down right next to the line of his spinal column.

And that’s not helping his self-control  _at all_.

He can handle it, though, even after Feuilly comes into the living room, swaying on those fucking boots, and sits down on the couch.  Even when he props his feet up on the goddamn coffee table and  _stretches_ , back arching and pulling taut, Bahorel can handle.

Except he really, really can’t.

He breaks about half an hour later, which is probably impressive but still totally not what he was going for.

“So are you gonna fuck me or not?” he asks.

“You gonna ask for it?” Feuilly replies.

Fucker.

Bahorel groans.  ”Not unless you make me,” he mutters, sinking further back into the couch.  He’s so fucked.  So fucking fucked.

Feuilly chuckles.  ”Too hard to just ask for what you want, huh?”

“Fuck no,” Bahorel grumbles.  

“You’re making it much harder on yourself than it has to be,” Feuilly responds almost primly.  ”You want it, I want it — just  _ask_  already.”

Bahorel inhales through his nose sharply and settles his feet flat on the floor.  His legs fall open, one knee brushing against one of Feuilly’s because their couch is too small.  ”Fuck me,” he says, and that’s about as close as he can let himself get right now.

Feuilly smiles.  ”Close enough for this time,” he says, and uncrosses his ankles before tossing one leg over Bahorel’s thigh.  ”You’ll get there eventually.”

He ignores it, but the weight of Feuilly’s leg anchors him down to the moment, to the little triumphant want throbbing that’s finally going to get satisfied.  He does need it, and he can admit that enough to himself when Feuilly starts to take over.

Carefully, Feuilly leans up, pivots, and turns so he can settle, straddling Bahorel’s lap.  Bahorel swallows at the look in Feuilly’s eyes, calculating and almost theatrical, and bares his throat.

Feuilly smirks.  ”Good boy.”

Bahorel purrs, and that’s it, he’s gone.  Feuilly can undo him with just his body weight and those two words said just like that.  Feuilly can slip under his goddamn skin when he does this, and Bahorel’s decently sure he knows it.

Feuilly leans down, bringing their mouths close together.  ”If there’s something you want, you’re going to have to ask me for it.”

Bahorel’s eyes flutter shut and he nods.  ”Fine.”

Feuilly kisses him then, and it’s maybe a little more careful, a little closer to gentle than Bahorel would like, but then Feuilly’s hand comes up and pulls the elastic out of Bahorel’s hair and tangles his hands in it, pulling sharply enough to sting.

Bahorel moans, and it rumbles from deep in his chest.  Shit, he needs this.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then Feuilly is pulling away and standing up.  Bahorel opens his eyes and settles his gaze somewhere around Feuilly’s collarbone.

“Now, we’re going to the bedroom, as nice as fucking on the couch is,” Feuilly says, hand still tight in Bahorel’s hair for a moment.  

When he lets go and steps away, Bahorel follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we have reached the goddamn porn.

When they get to the bedroom, Feuilly turns around and fixes him with a measuring glance.  “Strip."

Bahorel smirks and obeys, making a show of pulling off his t-shirt and unbuckling his belt, which Feuilly reaches out and takes it, tossing it aside.  He steps closer, and his breath is hot on Bahorel’s skin.  “Remember who’s in charge here."

"Oh, I do," Bahorel murmurs.  “No reason I can’t give you a show."

Feuilly steps back, nodding decisively.  His gaze is artfully critical.  “Go on, then.  Give me a show."

Bahorel slowly undoes his fly, and he’s been hard almost since Feuilly straddled him on the couch, but it’s even more apparent as he slides his jeans down to frame his thighs.  He’s almost poking over the top of his low-slung boxers now, and he’s only getting harder under Feuilly’s gaze.

He slides his thumbs into the waistband of those boxers and pushes them down slowly, teasingly, and there’s a flare of something hot and dark in Feuilly’s eyes now.

_Fuck yes._

When his pants are falling around his knees, he steps out of them and stands, naked and hard, and meets Feuilly’s eyes.  “Well?"

"You’ll do very nicely."  Feuilly’s eyes sweep over Bahorel, and there’s obvious approval in his voice.  “Very nicely indeed," he repeats, swaying a little closer before drawing a finger down Bahorel’s sternum, tracing the way is seems to cut a valley between his pectorals.

Bahorel can’t help but preen under the attention, and the praise.  Feuilly notices and smirks, drawing that finger back up, and up his throat to tilt his chin back.

"Now, what to do with you?"  It’s an obviously rhetorical question.  “You’ve been a little shit all week, you know."

Bahorel can’t nod, but he doesn’t think Feuilly even wants him to, so he stays as is.

Feuilly smirks.  “Get on the bed," he says, retreating somewhat.  Bahorel can still feel the ghost of his touch, and he swallows and obeys.

He lays on his back, sprawling out across the sheets.  He’s still going to be a little shit about it, and he makes sure he’s suitably debauched looking, but there’s always something hypnotizing about Feuilly when they do this, and Bahorel is close,  _so_ close, to just giving in and letting Feuilly take complete control.

But that inevitably comes later.  For now, Bahorel just cants his hips up a little and drawls, “Yeah?"

Feuilly nods.  “Very good."

He doesn’t approach the bed, though, and certainly doesn’t move to touch Bahorel, and he wonders what Feuilly’s got planned.

Because Feuilly has always been methodical about this.  Feuilly always has a plan.

"You’re going to finger yourself open for me."  Feuilly is completely calm about this, just gesturing to the nightstand with his chin.  “But you’re not going to touch your cock, and you’re going to  _ask_  me to fuck you."

Bahorel can’t help the shiver, because Feuilly has just a little bit of a sadistic streak in him, and it’s hot as fuck when he’s got it pointed at him.

He turns and pulls the lube out of the drawer in the nightstand and spreads his legs wider.  He slicks up a finger, keeping eye contact with Feuilly, and presses it against his hole.  Part of him is hoping to break Feuilly’s control, but the rest of him is well aware that there’s pretty much nothing that can when Feuilly’s like this.

Feuilly keeps eye contact as well, and Bahorel presses that finger inside himself, slowly pushing past muscle to get there.  He doesn’t do this often — usually it’s Feuilly’s long, deft fingers stroking him open — and he’s got thicker fingers, which means the sting around even one is bright.

"Good," Feuilly says.  “You’re doing well."

The praise is as calculated as everything else, but it does what it’s supposed to do.  Bahorel flushes and drives his finger in further, down to the knuckle, and breathes a little more heavily than before.  After a moment, he can move, and he does and  _oh._

He needs to do this more often, he decides.

Feuilly can read the surprise on his face.  “You like that, don’t you?  I knew you would."

Somehow, Feuilly can always tell.

Bahorel growls low in his chest, but moves his finger again, short sharp thrusts that wind up sliding across his prostate and making him see stars.  Finally he breaks eye contact with Feuilly, because his head falls back on the pillow and groans.

"Good," Feuilly says again, his voice a slow seductive slide.  “Another one, if you can."

Bahorel obeys, because that sounds like a  _very good idea_.

And it  _hurts_  for a hot second, because holy shit, he’s full, he’s going to be fine to take Feuilly’s cock when he’s worked himself open around two of his own fingers, and usually it takes three of Feuilly’s before he’s close to ready.

He moans when he bottoms both fingers out, and he has to wait for a long moment before he can start fucking himself on them.  He’s painfully hard, but he knows what happens when he breaks the rules — Feuilly won’t fuck him, or worse, won’t let him come.  And he’s going to need it tonight.  Feuilly can always tell.

Feuilly shifts, and floorboards creak.  Bahorel looks up, and Feuilly’s balanced on one foot, rubbing the ankle of the other.  The stiletto heels are wicked-looking, and Bahorel once again imagines one drawing sharply down his back.

"Fuck," is all he manages before his head drops back against the pillow.  He fucks himself on his fingers a little harder, because he still has too much pride to ask for more.

"Something you want, Bahorel?"

Bahorel bites his lip, tries to hold it back, but damnit, he  _needs,_ and Feuilly is asking.

"Fuck  _me_ ," he grits out, not phrasing it like a question at all.

Feuilly walks over to the side of the bed, making eye contact.  “I said you needed to  _ask_ ," he needles, smirking.  “That was the rule."

Bahorel groans again.  “Please?" he manages.

"Please what?  Be specific."  Feuilly sounds wicked, and Bahorel screws his eyes shut.

"Please fuck me."  It comes out more resigned than he’d like, but Feuilly starts touching him then, and the bed dips; Feuilly’s climbing on.

"Good boy," Feuilly murmurs into his ear.  “I knew you’d catch on."

Bahorel moans as one of Feuilly’s hands slides down his arm to where he still has his fingers buried in his ass.  Feuilly continues, “You’ve been so good — redeemed yourself for how much of a shit you were being this week."

Now Bahorel is moaning and the praise just makes it better.  He’d never admit it in the light of day, but he loves —  _loves_  — it when Feuilly praises him like this.

"You understand you can just ask when you need it?" Feuilly asks, trailing his free hand into Bahorel’s hair and playing the fingers of the other over his perineum.  “None of this fuss or bullshit.  You want a good hard fucking, I’ll give you one."

Bahorel tilts his face away, groans something similar to  _yes_ , and keeps fucking himself.

Feuilly’s hand wraps around his wrist and stops him, pulling his fingers out.  “I said I’m going to fuck you."

"Then  _do it_ , asshole," Bahorel hisses, not sure where this is going — Feuilly doesn’t usually push him this far with this.

"In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still fully clothed," Feuilly growls in his ear as he starts dragging his teeth down Bahorel’s neck.  “Let me at least get my pants open."

Bahorel smirks.  “Gonna keep the boots on?"

"I won’t hesitate to step on your dick," is the reply, and Bahorel groans.  Feuilly’s probably bluffing, but Bahorel’s not going to test him.  Not here.

Feuilly gets his pants open, and there’s the sound of a condom packet tearing open.  Bahorel waits, and then Feuilly’s there, sliding home.  He’s faster than maybe is entirely necessary, but the sting is good; Bahorel wants it rough and sharp and hard.

He wants  _Feuilly_ , with his bony elbows digging into his sides and his hipbones sharp against his ass and thighs.  And Feuilly seems to know that because when he bottoms out, Bahorel only gets a minute to breathe before Feuilly’s driving into him, hands braced under Bahorel’s arms.  He’s looking at Bahorel, reading his face, and this is why they work so well, whatever  _they_  happens to mean these days; Feuilly knows him better than anyone, and he uses that to both of their advantage.

Like now, with his hips pistoning in and in and in, and his mouth coming down to suck bruises into Bahorel’s collarbones.  They’ll show in the morning, and that more than anything is what makes Bahorel moan with pleasure.

"Good boy," Feuilly murmurs against Bahorel’s chest.  “You’re always so good once I’ve got you here."

Bahorel nods, and if he weren’t so far gone he’d probably be embarrassed at how fervent it is.

Feuilly rewards him, though, driving harder and faster into him, cock dragging every now and then over his prostate.  Every time it hits, it’s  _almost_  enough to drive him over the edge, but never quite there.

"Close," he groans out, when he’s been edging for what feels like ages.

Feuilly chuckles against his neck.  “You want to come?"

"Fuck, yes."

"Say please."

“ _Please_."

And then he barely even feels the way Feuilly’s hand wraps around his cock, because Feuilly drives into him deeper than before, curling Bahorel almost in half now, and it slides across his prostate twice in a row.  He tumbles over the edge, one long groan as their stomachs and Feuilly’s t-shirt are streaked with his release.

Feuilly mutters “Shit," and follows him over, but Bahorel’s still shuddering, head thrown back on the pillow.  It’s one of those wracking, shattering orgasms, and he can’t concentrate beyond the pleasure.

When he comes back to himself in the afterglow, Feuilly is draped across his chest, shirtless and still wearing the goddamn boots.

And he’s watching Bahorel.

"You good?" he asks.

"Fuck you," Bahorel mutters back, and he means,  _Yeah._

Feuilly nods, and buries his face in Bahorel’s neck.  He’s asleep within seconds.

Feuilly sleeps like the dead, so the kiss Bahorel drops into his hair goes unnoticed, but Bahorel’s all right with that.

He’ll pay Feuilly back for this in the morning; he always does.


End file.
